


The Joy in the Pain

by Zyphlat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Blood and Injury, Gen, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29832891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zyphlat/pseuds/Zyphlat
Summary: It's been a year since Sam left for college. Left Dean alone with John. A year without the spark of joy in his life that keeps Dean Winchester breathing.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	The Joy in the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS! This fic contains attempted suicide and mentions of abuse.

There is joy in pain, sometimes. Dean found it in his brother’s smile, in the memory of his mother, in the pride of a job well done and civilians saved. The pain was ever present, all encompassing, and yet there was joy to be found in the small things. It kept him going despite everything they went through. Until it didn’t.  
  
Sam had been gone for a year. Dad had only gotten angrier, more withdrawn. He split them up more, assigning Dean to hunts on his own and disappearing for weeks on end with little in the way of check ins. His punishments were harsher, more likely to bruise than ever before. His words were harsher too, leaving scars much deeper than any received on a hunt.  
  
Dean had just finished up a werewolf hunt when the inevitable happened. Three civilians lost on his watch and a very drunk John Winchester led to the beating of his life. He woke the next day to broken ribs, a concussion, and more bruises than skin. Some of it was from the hunt, being thrown around by a werewolf was no joke, but the ribs were from Dad. Too many of the bruises were from Dad. Worse yet, Dad was gone. A note on the table telling him to get his “sorry ass” to Medford, OR for a salt and burn…alone.  
  
He scooped up the note, bandaged his ribs, and cleaned up the room. He pointedly did not look at the broken chair, or the hole in the wall from his head. He knew he deserved this. Three dead this week and a trail of corpses in his wake that led from his first hunt with Dad right up to this last one. His fault. He was too slow on the trigger, not smart enough to piece the clues together, he hesitated. A million wrongs leading to death. Death that could have been avoided if he’d just been better, smarter, faster. Sometimes Dean wondered if maybe he was bad luck. Maybe even Mom had been linked to him somehow. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then gathered his things and headed out for another hunt.  
  
\--  
  
The hunt went badly. It took him over a week to figure out who the ghost had been in life. A week where two more civilians died on his watch. Then his broken ribs shifted while trying to dig the guy up and the hesitation it caused led to a toss against a headstone and almost not being able to finish the job. When he finally limped back to his motel room, covered in blood and grave dirt and sweat, he didn’t have the strength to do more than flop onto the covers and sleep. It was dark when he woke again. Dean sat up, hissing at the pain in his ribs and head, and pulled out his phone to check the date. Saturday, 10pm, he’d been asleep for more than 18 hours.  
  
He tugged his duffle up onto the bed and opened it, ready to shower and get the grime off himself. There on the very top, resting as if waiting for him, lay his colt. It was silver, with a pearl grip and a high polish, and it glinted in the light of the motel room beckoningly. His gun. A gift from Dad back when he first started hunting. He pulled it out and gripped it loosely, just feeling its familiar weight in his hands for a moment. His thoughts raced around him, almost visible, like a black cloud forming and unforming and collapsing in on him. He felt heavy.  
  
His gaze shifted from the shine of the gun to the phone that lay beside him on the bedspread. The filthy bedspread. He followed the dirt and turned slowly to look at the state of the bed. It was disgusting. Like he was disgusting. Fouled by dirt and sweat and blood. Fouled by him.  
  
He looked back to the gun again and thumbed the release on its grip. The magazine dropped out into his palm, filled with shiny silver bullets. He pressed it back into the gun with a click. He stared at it until the room seemed to shrink around him and his thoughts grew loud in his head. Failure. Worthless. Stupid. Dangerous. That’s what it was. He was dangerous. Too stupid to properly save people and too reckless.  
  
Dean pressed the safety off and pulled back the hammer. The sound of it clicking into place seemed to echo around him, bouncing off the swirling black cloud that surrounded him. Just him, and the gun, and the swirl of blackness that threatened to swallow him whole.  
  
As he brought the colt up to his chin and rested it there, he placed his hand to the bed and felt his phone. A single bright thought pierced the darkness around him for just a moment. Sammy. He gripped it tight and placed the gun back into his lap. He couldn’t go yet. Not without saying goodbye. He wouldn’t answer, but a voicemail would do. He could say goodbye.  
  
He dialed the number mechanically, never considering that his brother would have likely changed it after leaving them. It wasn’t a number Dad knew anyway, just a backup phone Dean had bought him the week before he’d left. It rang. Once, twice, three times. Dean took a deep breath, ready with a simple message, and then someone picked up.  
  
“Dean?” Sammy’s voice came over the phone and Dean couldn’t respond. The words died in his throat and he just sat on the edge of the filthy motel bed, breathing, gun in one hand, brother in the other. “Dean, are you there? Are you ok?”  
He tried to answer, he really did. Tears filled his eyes and he just soaked in his brother’s voice. He hadn’t heard it in so long. It felt like a lifetime.  
  
“Dean? You’re worrying me man. What’s going on?” There was a slight edge to his brother’s voice. Not really fear, more like frustration. Shit. He was bothering him. Sammy didn’t want him or his goodbyes. He’d left over a year ago and hadn’t reached out once. Of course he was bothering him. Stupid. Idiot. Leave him alone. You just drag him down too. His thoughts screamed at him. Dean clicked the phone shut and dropped it.  
  
He slid to the floor, barely noticing the pain in his body for the all-encompassing pain of his mind. His knees came up to his chest and his hands gripped his head, the gun grinding into his temple. Tears slipped down his face and he curled into himself. He lost track of time to the darkness.  
  
\--  
  
Sam heard the phone click and the line went dead. Fear gripped him. In over a year, nothing from his brother. He’d thought for sure Dean would reach out to him, come visit maybe, but as the months passed and his brother didn’t reach out his hope faded. Dean was Dad’s perfect soldier, loyal to the end. Of course he wouldn’t come after him. Dad wouldn’t have allowed it. His brother’s breathing had been frantic, quick little puffs of air like he was in intense pain. He raced to his computer, hopeful to track Dean’s phone and figure out where he was at the very least. Maybe, if he knew where he was, he could find his old contact list and have someone check on him.  
  
The screen loaded frustratingly slow, but soon he had a location. Dean was only 6 hours away. Sam thought for a moment, but his brother’s silence and panicked breathing echoed forcefully in his mind and he couldn’t shake it. He wrote down the address and a quick set of directions, then grabbed his keys and rushed from his apartment. He made the trip in less than five hours.  
  
Medford was a decent sized city, but it didn’t take long to locate the shitty motel on the far edge of town with the impala parked out front. He sweet talked the front desk lady into a room number despite the early hour and knocked on his brother’s door. A million thoughts ran through his head. Had a hunt gone wrong? Was Dean injured? Where was Dad?  
  
When Dean didn’t answer, Sam tried the handle. It was surprisingly unlocked and swung open easily. No salt line in front of the door, and only one light on. There was a single bed, and the dirt and blood covering the bedspread gave Sam a moment’s pause before his eyes landed on his brother. The sight filled him with fear to near panic.  
  
Dean was seated on the floor, eyes clenched tight and knees pulled up. His colt was in his hand, pressed up against his own chin in an unmistakable gesture, finger tight on the trigger. Tear tracks ran down his dirty face and he had blood in his hair. His jacket was torn on the side, with more blood stains there. Sam moved into the room and clicked the door shut, but Dean didn’t move.  
  
“Dean?” He said softly, moving as if approaching a wounded animal. “Dean, it’s Sam. Look at me please.”  
  
Dean’s eyes opened, but they were unfocused and wet. “S’m?” His voice was hoarse and shaking.  
  
“It’s me Dean. I’m here.” Sam knelt on the floor in front of his brother. “Dean, give me the gun.” He reached a hand out, keeping his movements slow and trying to exude calm despite the terror griping him. Dean shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, pressing the colt tighter to his skin. “Dean, please. Please give me the gun,” Sam begged.  
  
Dean started talking, too quiet for Sam to hear. He leaned in, just a little, reaching for his brother instinctually while desperately trying not to spook him. “Worthless. Stupid. Pathetic. Trash. Dangerous.” Dean’s words were a litany of self-hate, whispered to himself. It made Sam’s gut clench.  
  
“No Dean. No. Please look at me.” Tears filled his eyes and he knew his voice was strained instead of calm, full of pain and fear for his brother.  
  
Dean’s eyes snapped open and focused on him. “Sammy?”  
  
“Yes Dean. It’s me. I’m here. Please Dean.” He was choking on his own voice, desperate to break through. He reached out again, palm up. “Please give me the gun Dean. Please.”  
  
Finally, Dean nodded and pulled the gun away from his face. Sam reacted in an instant, jerking the gun away and ejecting the magazine and chambered round before pushing it as far from where they sat as possible. Dean cried out and moved as if to stop him, but Sam grabbed him up in a fierce hug and pinned him there. Dean struggled for a second more, then yelped in pain and collapsed against him. Sam’s heart broke as he realized his brother was sobbing into his chest and he held him firmly, careful of any injuries but trying to provide strength. He pressed his cheek to Dean’s head and let his own tears fall silently.  
  
\--  
  
It took Dean a while to realize where he was. Everything seemed foggy, like events were happening without him. He knew he’d seen Sam’s face, knew he’d reacted to his brother’s pain filled voice. He’d felt the colt being ripped from his hand, had fought for it before being pinned by strong arms. His broken ribs had moved and he’d felt the pain, but the warmth surrounding him had remained steadfast and he’d collapsed into it. His face was damp and so was the soft surface under his cheek. Someone was rubbing gentle circles on his back, and a voice was murmuring above him. Sweet and reassuring murmurs that he could only just make out. “I’m here Dean. I’ve got you. You’re ok.” The words may have been bordering on nonsense, but the voice attached to them was one he’d known damn near his whole life. The heartbeat he was pressed against was one he knew better than his own.  
  
He pulled back slightly to look up into a familiar face, into glistening hazel eyes. “Sammy?” The smile Dean knew so well, that had always lit up his darkest moments, broke across Sam’s face despite the tears on his cheeks. “What are you doing here?” Dean asked in wonder. How could Sam be here? Maybe he’d pulled the trigger after all? Maybe he was dead?  
  
Sam huffed out a small laugh. “Saving you, apparently.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “What the hell were you doing? Don’t you ever do that again Dean.”  
  
Dean could only nod, still marveling that Sam was even here. “How’d you find me?”  
  
“Tracked your phone. You didn’t answer me. You scared me.” He pushed Dean back for a moment and started checking for injuries. “Why did I find you with a gun to your head? You been bit by something? Are you hurt?”  
Dean shook his head. His thoughts were still spinning to fast to really hold onto and his head was still so fuzzy. “Wanted to end it,” he found himself spilling out. “Wanted to do something right for once.” He passed a hand over his face, trying to regain control, but the words just kept coming. “I’m useless Sammy. Too stupid and slow to save people. I’m dangerous. Gotta end it. Gotta be done.”  
  
Sam placed a hand either side of his face and forced Dean to look into his eyes. “Listen to me Dean. You are none of those things. You are amazing, smart, and yeah, you’re dangerous,” his eyes bored into him, “to monsters Dean. You are incredibly dangerous to monsters. You’re a hero. You save people.”  
  
Dean snorted. “Couldn’t save people Sammy. I’ve got so much blood on my hands.”  
  
He tried to pull away, but his brother held him fast. “You’re wrong. You have saved so many people Dean. The ones that didn’t make it, their blood is on the things that killed them. Not you. Never you.”  
  
Dean huffed a little, but his brain was finally starting to clear. The darkness that had been pressing on him moments ago had been chased away by his brother’s presence and the dark thoughts were being chased by his words. “Maybe.” He allowed. He leaned back against the bed and the action pulled at his side, where a tombstone had cut into him. He winced. “Might need some patching up.” Sam nodded and reached for his shirt.  
  
With skilled and patient hands, Sam stripped his brother layer by layer until his torso was revealed. He hissed in a breath at the sight of layered bruised and angry untreated cuts. “Dean. Tell me what happened.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Monsters.”  
  
“Do you think you can get into the shower? I can treat all this better if you’re clean.”  
  
He tried to get himself to his feet, but only made it about halfway before his legs began to shake. Sam caught him under the arms and pulled him up to the edge of the bed. “Don’t think I can stand.”  
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” Sam made sure he was stable on the bed, then moved to Dean’s duffle. He laid a change of clothes on the table, then turned towards the bathroom. That’s when both boys’ gaze fell on the colt. Sam bent and picked it up, then looked to Dean. His face was tight and a little haunted.  
  
“I’m okay.” Dean reassured, surprised to find that he actually was. His head was still a little fuzzy, but the desire had left him with Sam’s presence. “You can tuck it in my bag.”  
  
Sam nodded and put the gun away, moving the bag to the far side of the room. Then he went back for his brother. Dean hesitated a moment, but allowed Sam to help him up and into a chair. Sam stripped the soiled bed clothes off the bed, then ducked out for a moment. He returned with clean sheets and fixed the bed before turning back to Dean. “Let’s get you cleaned up okay?” Dean let his brother help him strip down.  
  
It wasn’t the first time one brother had helped the other clean up after a hunt, and seeing each other naked had long since stopped making either of them blush. It seemed to Dean that the year apart had changed nothing between them. Sam had found a bucket somewhere and placed it in the tub with a towel on top. As he ran a washcloth over Dean’s ribs, his expression kept changing. He shifted from concern to anger and back again. “Sammy?” Dean tentatively poked his brother after he’d stared at a particular bruise for more than seemed necessary.  
  
Sam looked up and they locked eyes. “What happened Dean?”  
  
Dean folded in on himself. “Just the usual,” he mumbled. “Got tossed around by a werewolf last week and a ghost this week.” Sam seemed to accept that, but the lie ate at Dean. That particular bruise was in the shape of Dad’s fist.  
  
After getting him clean, Sam tended his wounds and got him into bed. He brought him a glass of water and a few pain killers from the kit. “Get some sleep Dean.”  
  
“Slept for 18 hours already,” Dean argued, but he found himself exhausted and fell into bed anyway. “Don’t leave okay?”  
  
“I’m here Dean. Sleep.” Sam tucked him in and settled in a chair nearby. Dean let himself sleep.  
  
\--  
  
Sam knew his family’s job was dangerous, but he also knew his brother. Dean got hurt on hunts, sure. He got hurt often and sometimes badly. The bruises on his body though just didn’t sit right. He played his brother’s words over again. A werewolf and a ghost. Both singular, neither anything they hadn’t fought a million times. It didn’t add up to the kind a damage he’d seen.  
  
He picked up Dean’s phone to put it on a charger and noticed a voicemail. Dean was still out, and he wanted him to sleep off some of the emotional shit. He knew he wouldn’t want to talk it out, but Sam was determined to get him to spill. What could have driven his normally strong brother to the brink of suicide?  
  
Better listen to the voicemail, he decided. He still hadn’t seen Dad and maybe it was him checking in. He flipped the phone open and pressed the button.  
  
“I heard about the ghost. What the hell is wrong with you? Two dead? I taught you better than that!” Sam was startled at the anger in his father’s voice. The man was practically snarling. “You’d better get your sorry ass in gear and not cost any more casualties or so help me I’ll take it out of your hide. I’ve got a hunt for you in New Mexico, Carson National Forest. Get down there quick and deal with it. I’ll text you the coordinates. Don’t screw this up Dean.” With that the line went dead and the cheery voice of the machine was telling him how to delete the message or store it.  
  
Sam clicked the phone shut and looked over at Dean. He was shaking with rage. Their father had done this? Their father had bruised Dean? Cracked his ribs? He’d always been rough, but this? Sam set the phone down, afraid he would break it, and moved to sit on the bed. Watching his brother’s uneasy sleep, he knew he couldn’t leave him again.  
  
\--  
  
Movement nearby startled Dean awake, and he reached for a gun that wasn’t under his pillow. “Just me,” came a familiar voice, Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed.  
  
Dean looked up at him and blinked. “What’re you doin?” He passed a hand over his face and moved to sit up, but Sam pressed him back down.  
  
“Did Dad give you those bruises? The broken ribs?”  
  
Dean looked down at the bed, avoiding his eyes. “It’s nothin Sam.”  
  
“It’s not, Dean!” Sam exploded, leaping from the bed and turning on his brother. “He broke your ribs!” Dean glared up at him and watched his anger deflate. A fierce protectiveness took its place. “I’m taking you home.” He declared.  
  
“What?” Dean blinked. “Taking me to whose home?”  
  
“Mine.” Sam said emphatically. “Right now. You’re going to follow me to my place and you’re going to stay there until those ribs heal.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “Can’t Sammy. I’m sure I’ve got another hunt by now.-“  
  
“I don’t care.” Sam cut him off. “You need rest Dean, and I don’t give a shit what Dad says. You’re going to heal up before taking another case.”  
  
For a moment Dean felt like fighting him. Like arguing for as long as it took, or leaving without arguing. It was what he should’ve done, not drag Sam into more of his shit. Instead, he deflated. “Okay Sammy, you win.”  
  
Sam froze, but not for long. Dean could see the worry and concern written in the lines of his brother’s face, but he just nodded and moved to start collecting their things.  
  
Within the hour Sam was back on the highway. The impala followed close behind him and Dean couldn’t help but notice the backward looks he kept getting, as if Sam was afraid he’d lose him if he didn’t keep an eye out. He knew he’d screwed up again, knew he’d really scared his brother, but the love shown in those little looks back was like a light in the darkness. A little joy to be found in his pain.


End file.
